


Somewhere after midnight

by darkersky



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 02:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkersky/pseuds/darkersky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Neverland he's all farm boy, not a delicate prince.</p>
<p>Set after 3x02 so there are spoilers.</p>
<p>(Hook/Charming with some Swan Queen happening in the background plus one-sided Hook/Emma feelings, because apparently there's something about the fire in that lineage he just can't resist.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere after midnight

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, okay? Blame Neverland and 80s hits. (The title is totally from a certain grating Bonnie Tyler song that I will forever ironically associate with both Emma and Charming.)
> 
> Hook's voice spells things the British way. I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do about his education. He also has a lot of issues, but I suppose that's not exactly news to anyone.
> 
> There are mentions of past abuse and there might also be certain present issues with boundaries and general inappropriateness. Consider yourselves warned.

 

***

  

He keeps pressing his arm tightly to his side when he thinks nobody's watching. He flinches ever so slightly when the branches hit him and it's not his typical behaviour because whilst he can be both aloof and cocky, uncomfortable, confused and self-assured, all those things almost simultaneously, fire and the calmness of the ocean by moonlight (a somewhat intriguing combination, you have to admit), he is not someone who should be bothered by mere branches. You got your knowledge about the history of his wife's kingdom from sources on the wrong side of hero worship and myth-building so you know the gossip that he spent his youth tending sheep in meadows and forests.

So you wonder. And then you know.

  

***

 

"You are dying."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You got hurt in the battle, didn't you? Even after I specifically warned you about the poison?"

He doesn't look at you. He stares into the dark jungle, the lines of his mouth tight, and he resembles his daughter but he doesn't. He's softer, someone whose life has ultimately been full of fortunate turns instead of a downward spiral of misery upon misery. He's fought many battles but they have all been about love, not about survival. 

For the longest time you liked to pretend you were more like how you see him rather than what you see in her.

His daughter is angry and you are not used to the way she looks when she accepts your offer of a drink, to the way something in her eyes tells you that she's not completely _with you_ because if there's one art you like to think you have mastered to a T that is being able to make a lady (and a few gentlemen) very, very aware of your presence. But she's not some girl in a tavern in a port town and her mind is elsewhere, and sometimes you wonder if it's not just wherever her son is but somewhere else as well, and that bothers you and not, because if that's the case, then maybe there's nothing particularly wrong with you, maybe you just never stood a chance at all... All you know is that there's only one person other than her mother who occasionally makes her voice soften. And that ain't you, mate. It will never be you.

How you allowed yourself to become this, how you allowed yourself to lose all shame and almost all of your honour, how, instead of embracing the emptiness that lost love left in you, you let yourself replace it with a disgusting, gushing centre of hot, dark, bubbling muck (like the dead whale you once saw that had floated ashore and after a few days under the sun had begun to _ooze_ )... You don't know.

You shake your head and consider various insults in your head, want to spew out the dark matter that causes you constant nausea. But you are not really in the mood, because lately your nausea has considerably resembled sorrow so what you end up with is, "Why haven't you told anyone?"

"Because it's nobody's business but mine. And you are not telling anyone either." 

"I'm sure your wife..."

"You won't say a word to Mary Margaret." His face is so close to yours, and suddenly he's fire like his daughter, his forearm on your throat muscular and heavy, and he's all farm boy, not a delicate prince.

You are used to being pressed against hard surfaces, being stuck in tight spots (such as this very island) having characterized most of your life, and maybe there's a part, a not so small part either, of you that enjoys these power plays, so you grin. "As you wish, prince," you say, mocking his title because he's so not that right now. "May I take a look at the wound, though? I have dealt with that particular brand of poison before, maybe there's something..."

"No," he says.

He walks away. He straightens his jacket as he goes, puts up a front.

Regal family man. Loving husband and father. A prince. A sword-wielding hero.

But this is Neverland, you know, and you wonder how long he will be able to keep that up. The pretence of being something other than a shepherd boy a long way away from his home on the farm.

  

***

 

"David, are you okay?" his wife asks.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he says.

"Are you sure? You look a little pale..."

"Probably just a little dehydrated." His smile is stupid and when he accepts the water bottle his wife offers him, she smiles back and he touches her cheek with his impossibly steady hand. Impossibly steady, because, really, he should be in quite a bit of pain by now.

She in her undying optimism probably thinks the gesture means gratitude and love and it does, but you know it also means, _"Sorry,_ _I don't want to tell you_ _I'm dying."_

You wonder why he would want to keep something like that a secret but it's not something you should be pondering upon so you focus on not leading anyone into any more lethal traps. Your familiarity with this wretched place is, after all, the only thing you have going for yourself in the eyes of these people.

 

***

 

The fire crackles and in the glow from the flames you see that he keeps running his hand over his forehead where beads of sweat appear every now and then.

The others are sleeping, his wife's hand occasionally reaching out over to his side of the makeshift bed, meeting nothing. It's not the warmest night by the island's standards and she's probably missing his warmth against her back, missing him and his farm boy arm draped across her stomach. A little further away, in the shadows, you can spot two sleeping forms, not exactly close to each other but not exactly an appropriate distance for mortal enemies away from one another, and you still haven't decided whether it bothers you or not.

_Y_ _our_ mortal enemy is somewhere in the darkness, up to who knows what vile things, and you feel foolish and old and a little lonely and like you have wasted your life, and you hate this bloody island that makes you feel this way, makes you lose all your sharp edges.

You play with the collar of your leather coat until it stands up straight.

"How are you feeling?"

He looks up, shakes his head. He's tired.

You are tired, every single one of you. But he's also foolishly dying and you don't know why so you sit down on a rock by the fire and wait.

"If you are attempting to use your pirate charms on me in order to impress Emma, you should back the hell off."

"Oh. Ouch."

He's quiet. Then, "Is that... Is that it?"

"Is what, what?"

"Are you trying to impress Emma?"

Something about the hint of anger in his voice touches upon a need deep inside you. An emptiness. An absence of warmth. "Would you hold it against me if I were?"

"Yes."

"Ah, an overprotective father. Lovely." You feel the slightest sting of old bitterness resurfacing but, really, your father leaving you was merely the beginning and, in a sense, a relief as well.

"I mean it. You are the last person I want around my daughter."

"Really? The last person?"

He detects your amusement and looks at you sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"

You smirk and say nothing. If he's blind to what's happening, so be it. He's not the only one who's allowed to have secrets on this island.

He's silent again in a somewhat disgruntled manner but he allows his shoulders to slump a little.

"You know... I'm not just a pirate."

"I don't really care," he says.

"And you are currently not feeling much like a prince, are you?"

"How long do I have?" he asks instead of answering your question and perhaps it's in his blood, this tendency to evade personal inquiries.

"Depends on how big the wound is."

"It's..." He clears his throat. "It's maybe a palm's width."

"If I could just..."

"No."

"May I ask why?"

"Just tell me how long."

"I'd give you a week."

"Do you think we will have found Henry by then?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. This is Neverland so you can never know anything for certain. The passage of time and its effects on us being one of those uncertainties."

He looks impatient, as if he doesn't really want to hear all these technicalities. "Until we do find him, doing so should be all of our focus."

You recognise the finality of his words, and you merely nod.

  

***

 

"Fine," he says angrily because you have followed him into the jungle and you make your presence known just as he's about to pull off his shirt, and you are glad your instincts were right and he didn't desire privacy because of... other reasons.

The wound may have originally been a palm's width but it's blackened round the edges and you can almost see how the darkness keeps spreading in his veins, painting a map on his pale skin.

"It's bad, isn't it?" His eyes are closed and he looks resigned, drained of all his power and all pretence and suddenly you realize that he's just a shepherd who got hurt in the forest, too proud to ask for help, too determined to make it through the night on his own, and not entirely because he doesn't feel worthy of finding relief from the pain, but he's supposed to make sure the living creatures over whom he's watching are safe and there's no time for self-preservation when there are wolves or, as is the case here, Lost Boys and demon children out there, about to attack any minute.

A shepherd never abandons his flock and a captain always goes down with the ship if that means saving the crew and this, these people who mostly hate you – they are your crew now, whether you like it or not, whether or not your ship can yet be salvaged.

You move a few steps closer and against your better judgement you reach out your hand. He flinches when your fingertips move against his skin which is both too hot and too cold and you can feel the goosebumps and cold sweat. A hiss escapes his lips as your finger trails along one black line, headed towards his heart.

"It's bad, yes." There's no reason to deny it.

"I just don't want them to worry."

He's allowing himself to be poisoned to death really painfully and he's worried about his family in all the wrong ways. There's bravery and dedication and then there's single-minded foolish stubbornness. You of all people should know that. You grit your teeth. "You should tell someone. There's nothing right or honourable about doing this to your family."

"What do you know about honour or family, pirate?" His chuckle is weak, trembling, but not completely malicious.

"As I said, being a pirate is not the only thing I know. It may be the only thing I know how to be well, but it's not the only thing."

"Mary Margaret... Snow would kill me."

"You are already dying."

"No, I can't tell her."

"How about Emma?"

"No... Not Emma." He's quiet, contemplates his choices. "Maybe Emma. I don't know."

  

***

  

He doesn't tell anyone so you do. You are a captain and he's part of your crew. It's almost as if you have no choice really.

Emma almost rips your throat out, Bae's sword drawing a little blood from the side of your neck, and it's almost instinctively that you crack a joke about her passionate need to inflict both physical and emotional pain upon you, and damn if it doesn't send a jolt, sharp and desperate and a little sad, down your spine. But you do tell her, and she stomps over to where her father is sharpening _his_ sword close to where his wife, once again, is sleeping alone, and she grabs his arm and says, "Dad. We need to talk."

You are not sure whether his surprised expression is because of the familial term or the sudden ambush, but you can't help grinning in relief at the sight of the two of them disappearing into the woods.

She comes back a few moments later, gives you a dark glance that tells you she's not going to forgive you for not telling her about this sooner, and walks over to where the one other member, the one with whom you discussed happy endings (and isn't it unfair that she may still believe in those and perhaps with a good reason as well), of your merry band of rescuers is sleeping, taps on her shoulder and a few soft words and loaded looks later, they both venture into the dark jungle. 

You take a quick look around, see no immediate dangers lurking in the shadows, and, if you are completely honest, you don't really care that his wife is the only one still asleep, oblivious to everything – she's the one with the unnaturally good aim with the bow after all, and then you, too, follow the others into the darkness.

 

***

 

You are quiet in the background as you observe.

Emma looks frayed, like this is something that she _thank-you-very-much_ so didn't need in addition to losing her son. "What kind of a fucking idiot keeps something like this a secret?"

There's an exasperated eye roll. "The same kind that willingly tries to drown herself in the ocean."

Instead of the _"Shut up"_ you anticipate, Emma says, "Just... Help me." The queen's eyes are full of carefully concealed concern under the layer of frustration, and a million things are said without uttering a word, and sorry, mate, you know without a doubt that you never stood a chance there, because Emma will never look at you with that much trust and desperate _need_. Maybe no one will and it's nobody's fault but your own.

"What do you need me to do?" the queen asks, and Emma? Emma is practically pleading when she says, "How do I heal him with... with magic?"

You close your eyes, walk away. It will either work or it won't.

Magic makes you feel queasy and you are not needed here.

  

***

 

When they come back, you are sitting with your back against a sycamore tree, surrounded by shadows and the faint sound of crying children you have learnt to ignore, and you pretend you are neither paying attention to the approaching figures nor hating everything about this place, no, sir, you are very much asleep, but you notice the general aura of relief that surrounds them and some of it sticks to you as well.

Magic. Poof. Death averted.

Magic. Poof. A heart ripped out.

Magic. Poof. It makes you feel queasy. 

He walks over to where his wife is sleeping, his eyes undoubtedly soft and glistening with unshed tears, and he just stands there, looking, for a long time. You used to look at Milah like that, like you almost couldn't _believe_.

Somewhere by the tree line, Emma is visibly shaking, but you are not the one who for one passing moment touches her shoulder and the shakiness is gone and then there's just fire again. Fire, determination, anger, in stark contrast with the softly spoken serious words, words that you will never be privileged enough to hear.

It will never again be you who has got these things. All _you_ have got left of any value are your memories of this bloody, bloody island and the last shreds of what's still there of your honour, your debt to Bae, and the ensuing responsibility for your crew who will never fully appreciate your devotion to this mission.

Maybe this time what the island is making you admit to yourself is nothing else but the fact that whilst being a pirate is not all you have ever been, it may very well be the only thing you will know by the time Peter is finished with you.

Maybe this time you are not supposed to leave.

 

***

 

The jungle is dark and this is an occasion when you don't have an explanation either for his being there alone or your following him, because he's all better and you are not concerned. Maybe it's because it was only moments ago you saw the two people, one shimmering grey and one glistening darkness, sitting by the flickering flames, not talking, but so very _together_ in some powerful manner that made your innards cold and yes, oh yes, you know now for certain it bothers you. Because that will never be you, mate. You will never again feel that way. 

You will be lucky if you feel at all, and that, that very fear of everything, forever and ever, being black fluctuating nothingness in your soul is what makes you want to play with fire, what makes you hunger for it.

One corner of his mouth curls up in something between distaste and tolerance when he sees you, but he's not surprised.

"Checking up on me, _mate_?" he asks.

"Well, no need to thank me for saving your life."

"You didn't save my life. Emma and Regina did."

Of course. Of course you are no good, pirate. So you tease. "Those two seem to be awfully chummy as of late." 

He doesn't look concerned, still wilfully ignorant. "I guess that's natural considering the circumstances."

"If you say so," you say because you have got no idea what's natural and what isn't.

"I guess I do have to thank you," he says finally. He says it kindly, but kindness is deceptive and really not something you want from him. His eyes are the colour of shallow water and much like shallow water, kindness puts out the flame in him, turns him into a boring royal, someone who _exten_ _d_ _s_ his goodwill to his subjects.

You don't want that. You don't want kind. You don't want friendship and companionable silences. You want fire.

"Don't mistake my actions for caring," you say.

He's amused but not particularly hurt. "Oh, I would never."

If you are to live the rest of your days feeling like this, this empty certainty of endless solitude, this realisation of time wasted on something that was not worth it even if Milah was worth exactly _everything_ to you, just a tiny smidgeon of that fire is all you crave. However, even in your pathetic state you sense that punching someone whose life you helped save might not have the desired effect (nor would it make any sense), but perhaps there are other ways of going about it. 

So you grab his shoulder with your good hand and push, push until he hits something hard, a tree. He stumbles, surprised, and you lick your lips and say, "Let's see just how grateful you are."

You went to an all-boys school before your pirating days. In addition to proper manners and good grammar, you learnt how boys are with each other when there are no girls to woo or harass. You observed lost teenaged lads for centuries whilst living on a ship with a crew of men.

You know how these things work. You know hushed voices, clammy hands, hot breath, grabbing shirts and unbuttoning clothes. You also know the embarrassment and occasional punches afterwards, because of course none of you were actually _like that_ , like those men you associated with the travelling performers who wore dresses and heavy make-up at country fairs, those men your father told you to avoid at all costs should you ever find yourself in a brothel. ( _"You are becoming a man, son_ _,_ _a_ _nd men get lonely every now and then._ _There's_ _nothing we can do about that._ _"_ ) You did see, though, during your short stint in the big city that the attitudes regarding that kind of deviant behaviour in the land without magic were certainly different from what you learnt growing up. And yes, you did wonder, however briefly, if in that land your father would have still shaken with more anger the more make-up you wore and the lower the necklines of your shirts got. If, when you pierced your ear, he would have almost torn the ring off, twisted your earlobe painfully until there was blood and you were on your knees swearing that you loved the ladies, _loved_.

And you did. You loved the ladies so much that one particular one was your utter and complete undoing. You loved Milah from the bottom of your heart, with every single dark crevice of your corrupted soul. But that didn't mean you couldn't appreciate ( _appreciate_ , because it wasn't love, far from it) hard muscles and firm, dirty hands, mouths that never kissed you on the lips, but did other things to your body instead.

Yes, you do indeed appreciate rough hands, hands much like the ones twisting the fabric of your shirt right at this very moment. And you aren't at all concerned about the possibility of any ensuing violence. In fact it's almost a prospect you welcome, because at least it would be something that burns, something that cracks the surface of sorrow.

"What do you think you are doing?" he asks and you breathe, breathe so close to his ear, watching as the tiny hairs on his neck stand up, because he's only a man and men are weak.

"Oh, don't tell me shepherd boys don't come up with strategies to keep warm and alert in the night whilst watching over their flocks."

He's on you like a wild animal, both panicked and ready to attack, and your back hits the trunk of the tree with so much force that it almost hurts in that way that keeps the sadness at bay.

"I don't know what you are talking about," he says, baring his teeth.

You laugh, because this is something you know. The punches afterwards. The denial. "Really?" You stare him straight in the eye, quirk an eyebrow, and you smile.

You rip his shirt in the process of piercing it with your hook, and he says, "Hey!" but he doesn't really fight you as you pull him closer until you are standing eye to eye.

"This doesn't mean anything to you," you say, because it seems as if he needs to be reassured of that even though there's no question, but he's got a wife and a lot of self-righteous honour, and you really, really need this. You don't deserve this, but you need this.

"Why would you..." he asks but the question dies on his lips as you slide your hand under what remains of his shirt, touch the healed wound, and he braces for a flinch and then seems surprised by the fact that it doesn't hurt and that makes you wonder how much, how much exactly _did_ it hurt?

But you are not sentimental so you dig your nails into his flesh where the ugly wound used to be and when he says, "Hey!" again, this time more heatedly, you say, "You are nothing but a foolish shepherd boy."

His mouth opens and closes and yes, there it is, the fire in his eyes, but he hasn't got any idea what to say, and you understand that, because you know, you _know_ , intimately, how this island works. "That's not true," he manages to whisper, but you notice how alert he is, how he's constantly taking in his surroundings, assessing potential threats.

You find the thought of distracting, and not just that but _corrupting_ , him rather alluring so you slide your hand up, up, feeling the straight line of his spine, and then down, and his breathing is erratic when your hand comes to rest on the waistband of his trousers. "This doesn't mean anything to you," you whisper in his ear again and he closes his eyes, and you slide your hand down, down until he takes a shuddering breath, and you smirk against the collar of his jacket, because this is a game you know how to play and right now you are winning, basking in the warmth he emanates.

"You are not a prince," you whisper, and he grabs your hair angrily, pulls so hard that it hurts, oh, it hurts, and you _feel_ it, and you drop down onto your knees, and soon his breathing is even more ragged, and he's nothing but a shepherd with rough hands and you are nothing but a lad with too much make-up, and his skin is hot under your touch.

  

***

 

He dresses quickly, shakes his head as if trying to clear it.

"Not one word to anyone," he says needlessly before he turns and walks away, all prince, all regal again.

"Aye, aye, prince," you say, feeling somewhat victorious and hot but still mostly empty.

And you look up, up at the dark sky where stardust makes up the familiar shapes under which you have sailed the seas of this realm and many others and never truly arrived anywhere. You keep wondering if, even though there is nothing you can do in terms of fighting anyone's, neither his nor hers, nonsensical notions of what they think (or don't yet think but will) of as True Love, the kind of love you once had, and even if you are sort of ridiculous and no good, perhaps this small dose of fire, of _feeling_ , is enough to keep you going.

Perhaps it eases some of the regrets you hold. Perhaps it's something that might some day turn into hope.

Perhaps, but probably not, though isn't that the very nature of hope?

So you shrug, brush the fallen leaves off the shoulders of your coat, and you walk on. Alone.


End file.
